


Widow and The Caucasian Ovcharka

by Gothams_Only_Wolf



Series: Widow Bites [1]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Widow finds she has more loyalty than she thought. </p><p>For kurowrites on tumblr~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Widow and The Caucasian Ovcharka

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro/gifts).



> I blame Kuro for this fic. Seriously. Putting the idea of Illya n Nat in my head like that...
> 
> Enjoy~

* * *

**-KGB Headquarters; 1962-**

Illya knows that you only _hear_ about the Black Widow after she's done the most impossible things; you never see her. The junior KGB joke that she's a ghost, a **_freak_** —Illya corrects them. 

"The Widow was my mentor," He looms over the junior agents, cold fire in an already frigid expression. "She taught me everything I know." 

"She's _real_?" The agent in question squeaks helplessly as Illya stares him down. 

"Yes." 

As he walks off, Illya hears all of them breathe a sigh of relief. He's subtle when necessary but it doesn't suit him; Widow taught him to play to his strengths and to undermine their expectations. 

"He scares me more than the Widow does." 

Illya snorts in contempt. They have no idea what she's like.

* * *

**-KGB Training Grounds; 1958-**

Illya does most of his training in silence, listening carefully to his instructors and demonstrating considerable skill even if he's the tallest of the recruits. He speaks when spoken to, follows orders and best of all, isn't questioned for his loyalty. It's when he's pulled off to the side by his concerned instructor that Illya thinks maybe he shouldn't have followed _every_ order he was given. 

"The higher ups like your scores Kuryakin. I don't know what that means but watch your back." The petite woman is his sternest instructor which brings this into an even more serious light. 

"Yes Instructor." 

They call for him to come up after his language training (English, French and a language of his choice; Illya had picked Cantonese) that very same day. 

"Kuryakin, your scores demonstrate a high ability to follow orders. Would you be willing to work with an adjacent program to further your abilities?" His top superior, a man shrouded in shadow as Illya stands in the light, asks of him. 

"I would work with any liaison you chose for me, sir." He carefully states, keeping his expression blank and unreadable. That doesn't mean that his superior cannot see through eleven months worth of training but Illya does want to work this out. The shame his Father brought to their name is something his deeds can erase if he jumps through the right hoops. 

Part of him hopes that his Father has nothing at all to do with this and it is Illya's own merit that gained him this offer. 

"Well-said, Junior Agent. I know many of your peers would turn down this offer should it include a woman. Will you?" The tone suggests that Illya would be stupid if he did. 

"No sir. Agents are agents," Illya honestly doesn't care if he's working with male or female agents. Agents are abilities, not gender; though he is proud to serve with and under women if it's asked of him. "Will I be reassigned, sir?" 

"For the time being, your mentor will come to you." 

"Yessir." 

"You're dismissed. Your first assignment with her will be in two weeks." Just like that, his presence in the room is studiously ignored. Illya leaves after a short salute to the superior and the other in the deep shadows, though he'd only seen a bare glimpse of a leather glove because he'd turned just so.

* * *

Illya returns to his schedule and none of his peers ask where he went or why sometimes his expression turns thoughtful. It's the glimpse that makes him so pensive, honestly. He knows he was **_allowed_** to see his new partner though the _why_ of it escapes him. Pouring over the tactics manuals gives him nothing but a scant mention of an all-women's program that the KGB employs to create exceptional results. 

This is after he bribes the librarian with thick Swiss chocolate and sweetened coffee for a week. He's learned of the indulgences that his peers and the various personnel have with more subtle inquiries than his usual methods. Honeypot is not something he excels at naturally but he does have a... flair for the quieter approach. 

The instructors had told him that a genuine smile would gain him at least half a dozen more details than a well-placed smirk. 

So he smiles at Helenka behind her desk and nudges the conversation towards the small segment he discovered last time. 

"Helenka... That last section that you gave me mentioned something new." 

"Oh? Ah, the elite program. Are you sure you should be digging this far back into the archives?" she asks with a look around the empty shelves and chairs. 

"Purely for research's sake, Helenka, I promise. Not a word of it past my lips outside this library." Illya admits frankly. "You're the one with the information I need."

Helenka smiles and it's edged with something he should have noticed far sooner. 

"You're the glimpse." 

"Only took you a week." The other agent (because no way in the seven hells is he referring to her so casually again) snorts as she removes the mousy brown wig with a deft hand. "Don't worry. The other seven we chose never even got past Helenka Orlov's last name." 

"... Seven?" He repeats faintly, a small surge of pride rolling through him. "They were given the same chance." The statement is more of a question but the red-headed woman with no makeup on in front of him understands. 

"Exactly the same chance, though I think your instructor told you something before we met that made you come here." She inquires lightly as a similar mousy-haired woman from the agent's disguise slipped into the chair. "The actual Helenka Orlov." 

"A pleasure. Do you still enjoy chocolate and coffee or is that not true?" Illya keeps the new agent in view but turns to the woman at the desk. 

"Very true and Agent Romanov dutifully passed them onto me after you left." Helenka promises with a wink. 

"Then I will bring some by after my mission." Illya hums as he offers the canister of coffee to the true librarian with a slight bow. 

"Shall we?" Agent Romanov gestures to the doorway and Illya follows with a quiet stride.

* * *

Their mission goes, as the Americans say, tits up in the first five minutes. Agent Romanov is almost shot and Illya gains his first mission scar (a burning ricocheted bullet across his stomach) before they manage to get everything under containment. 

"Well done Kuryakin." Coming from Romanov, it's high praise indeed. 

"It needs work." Illya mutters as they slink away from the scene in clothes snagged from a shop whose windows had been blown out. He hates the sweater vest and light blue top with a tie along with tan pants but Romanov pulls off the deep green dress and jacket combination with aplomb. They'd ripped his old shirt to press against his wound until they could get back to their hotel. 

"At least you admit to it," she says as she leans on his arm and laughs as though he'd said something funny. People's eye move away from them in the crowd that's headed for the downtown area. Illya files that thought away for later. 

Agent Romanov stitches him up in the bathroom, her bottom lip pressing almost flat against her upper lip. Her green eyes flick between the bathroom door and Illya himself before she speaks in Russian slang so thick Illya smiles unconsciously; it's Moscow countryside, somewhere near his hometown. 

"We can speak privately now." 

"Agent Romanov... I failed the assessment, didn't I?" he blurts and then winces at the pull on his stitches. 

"No," the flat response makes him close his eyes. "Our informant must have squealed to the wrong source. This was a quick in and out mission. Bug the target and watch them for a little. Under the circumstances presented, you did rather well." 

"And now?" 

"Now we torture the informant and kill them. I hate sloppy work almost as much as our superiors do." Her blood-thirsty grin would have terrified anyone else... Illya just matched it with one of his own.

* * *

Illya comes back to HQ with three new sets of stitches and spattered in blood. Agent Romanov (clean save for a smear of blood on her left hand that Illya wiped away on the plane-ride back) has been detained for briefing; he's told to take a shower and report to Rm 406 for evaluation. 

While he's walking, recruits and peers part like Illya is either a god or a leper. He slips into the showers and hums Tili Tili Bom faintly as he finished drying off. 

Illya combs his hair into place, tucking his comb away into his toiletries before setting them onto his cot in the living quarters. The black sweater and black pants shift over the bandages from the infirmary but don't make too much noise. His tread is silent all the way to Rm 406 where he hears a scuffle, kicking the door in to find his superior is struggling and locked between Agent Romanov's thighs before she gives her hips a twist to snap his neck. 

"Is that from higher up?" Illya asks as he lifts the dead body and positions him just so in the chair that whoever touches him will not recognize that he's dead until he can't speak. 

"It is," she pauses and looks him dead in the eye. "You'll have a smarter superior come the morning. He's being pulled from fieldwork for the time being, even if he's an effective agent." 

Illya frowns as he works through why Romanov would kill the KGB superior and he hits upon it, looking up to see her gone and the curtains fluttering in the breeze. 

"Are all of our conversations going to end like this, Romanov?" He asks the air, swearing up and down he hears a genuine laugh from three stories down.

* * *

Agent Sabatin is ruthless but fair when he takes command of the KGB recruits. He promotes Illya to his aide, pelting him with serious questions about the previous superior. He decides quickly that either he welches on his superior or gets sent... elsewhere. Illya holds his tongue for the most part, only agreeing when an incident was something he'd seen himself.

Sabatin eyes him shrewdly before laughing. 

"Sir?" 

"I like you. You say just enough to stay out of trouble but you haven't exposed every secret you have." comes the answer just as Illya bites into his sandwich. "Finish your food, Kuryakin. You're not in trouble." 

Illya nods mutely as Sabatin continues. 

"So, you worked with the Widow, hmm?" 

He cocks his head to the side and makes a noise of general confusion. 

"Romanov." 

Illya swallows sharply at that. The Black Widow was silent, deadly and everything the women in the recruits strived to be when (and _if_ ) they heard about her. 

"You didn't know." 

"No sir." 

"How was it?" Sabatin leans forward on Illya's desk, grey eyes alight with interest. 

"She was intense. It wasn't obvious if you glanced at her from a distance but up close it was _**breaktaking**_." He murmurs, trying to find the words for Agent Romanov now that she wasn't there next to him. "She personally stitched up all of my scars. Deft hand, by the way, and well-versed in so many languages." 

"You like her." Sabatin states. 

Illya snarls at the implication. "No. Not like that." 

"Oh." 

"She's beautiful, no doubt, but I am not her equal. Romanov needs someone with the same quiet strength, the same strong sense of duty." He admits as he stares at his half-finished food. "Someone, someday, will make her laugh, will make her smile and it will be like the stars have come to Earth but—It is not nor will it ever be me." 

"Maybe you should take up poetry," Sabatin snorts as he leans back to reach for his own lunch. "Words like that coming from an agent." 

"I am no poet, sir."

* * *

As soon as Illya is promoted to the status of Agent, he's brought into a small windowless room and a flash of oddly familiar red comes into view. 

"Agent Romanov." 

"Kuryakin." There's a brief twitch of her lips before they're sent on mission again. 

The plane ride was quiet, punctuated by Illya and Romanov using sign language to keep their conversation somewhat private. 

_You're the Widow?_ Illya signs carefully. 

Romanov signs back, amusement clear in her eyes. **You heard? Does it change anything?**

_No._

**Good.** She hums after she signs. **This is deep cover. We're supposed to be siblings.**

_Long mission then._ Illya snorts as he wrinkles his nose. _I'm glad it's you. The rest of my peers are frightened of me._

**Fools, the lot of them.** She gives him the faintest ghost of a smile. **You're better than half the KGB I work with on a weekly basis.**

_Thank you._ He frowns and then signs again. _I think_

 **It's a compliment. Trust me on that.** Romanov replies before both of them stop signing at the confused look from the mission coordinator. 

He mouths 'Alright' before they have to dive out of the plane.

* * *

This time they play at being Russian students fleeing the harsh reality of Russia in 1960. Hong Kong is loud, bustling and an odd sort of reprieve. Illya knows the target is someone who claims to be working to bring the Union and America together. 

The first thing is to watch the target, leading them to stop at dai pai dong for food as they traced the man's footsteps. Illya's Cantonese gets a serious update from locals and the grandmothers serving in the dai pai dong stalls. Romanov's Mandarin and local Hong Kong dialect is (of course) perfectly patchy, causing men to 'assist' his 'sister' in learning them. He laughs at them when they're gone, joking to Romanov in Moscow slang. 

"They're so _eager_." he teases and she snorts into her milk tea. "I don't have women trying to teach me... Am I not doing it right?" 

"Try getting most of it right and then fouling up a word or two." She advises with a nudge against his shoulder. "Don't hunch over either. You stick out regardless so why not own your height?" 

"I'll try it tomorrow in the next district." he agrees as they down thier siu mai to follow the man again. They wind through several neighborhoods before their target stops to buy candy for the small children who tag along behind him. Illya's gut tells him this isn't right but they had orders. 

"It doesn't seem right," Romanov remarks as they watch the simply-dressed man indulge the children tailing him. "What is your instinct telling you?" 

"We should not do this." He replies honestly as he tracks the man's body movement. 

"Then we find a reason not to kill him, maybe." It's part suggestion, part minute hesitation on her part. Something happened to her to make her say such a thing in their time apart. Maybe she's found her equal, a someone to balance her out. 

A reason shows itself when the man salutes the communist flag of Mao Zhedong (their report leaves out the American flag flying right next to it).

* * *

**-South America; 1961-**

Illya ducks the gunfire to sit in the empty café with Romanov. 

"You know, I think you've earned my name, Kuryakin." She teases around a mouthful of blood. 

Her lung's been grazed with an in-and-out bullet that now resides in the wall of the bomb-blackened little shop. She'll be alright in a moment but she waits while she's being knitted back together. (Illya learned about the slightly faster healing ability in the middle of the desert in Yemen half a year ago.) 

"Oh?" 

"Mmm, after Yemen and that awful mission in Spain plus the absolute goose-chase in Mongolia, I think so." She sprawls her leg out, Illya wincing at the knife slice and/or grenade shrapnel gash on her lower thigh with blood dribbling into the horrible faux green carpet and turning it brown. 

"We have to move soon." He murmurs with a genuine smile. The KGB has almost worn it thin with the missions they make him go on without Romanov. 

"It's Natalia but my new alias is Natasha. You may use both for getting me out of this mess." Natasha prompts while she uses the wall as leverage to get up. Though she doesn't hiss in pain, Illya has spent enough time with her to know they need to get back to HQ quickly. Endurance only lasts so long even with Red Room and KGB training. 

Illya does have the best back-up any agent could ever ask for. 

Each enemy is dispatched with cool efficiency and Illya's blood-red vision after he gets shot in the shoulder twice. When all of them are dead or dying, Illya stares at his dripping hands, not noticing that a good portion of the blood is his own trickling down his soaked sleeve. 

"Kuryakin. You're bleeding." She points out pragmatically and rips the edge of the awful puke colored high-waisted pants she's wearing to staunch the blood for the moment. 

"Ah."

"There's red in you, yes, but not all of it is their blood. I promise you that." 

Maybe the stars have come to the Earth in the form of one Natasha Romanov and she's too blinded by the red to see. Illya can deal with that if only to tell her all about the light should she ever need him to do that.

* * *

**-KGB Headquarters; 1964-**

Loyalty breeds loyalty or so the saying goes. When the Widow defects to the other side Illya must renounce her in order to live. In his heart of hearts, however, he's cheering her on. They did something to her in the years he hadn't seen her, made her harsh in a way he'd never seen in her before that; maybe he hadn't been looking, not wanting to see what she could be capable of. 

Trickery, they call it. 

Freedom, Illya labels it and knows that it's true. 

When he's offered to Waverly after the disaster that is Eastern Germany (which only gives him fond memories of the Widow and doesn't help but makes him smile softly), Illya sees a chance to leave the KGB. When they bring up his Father's shame and his Mother's... habits Illya quivers in a way he hasn't in years. Solo and Teller pull on the sliver that the Widow has nurtured, kept safe from the world for so long. 

What follows is convoluted for many reasons but he does as ordered up to a certain point, remembering Hong Kong and a woman with bright red hair. 

The bonfire releases the walls he's built up. He's free for the time being and he'll make it work.

* * *

Turkey proves to be a beautiful wreck like '61 in South America but he can't keep his true smile from showing through. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya spots a red that sparks a wider smile. 

"Natasha." He greets as she settles into the chair next to Solo with perfect ease and complete silence. Solo gives an undignified squeak as he looks at her. Gaby only chuckles as she pours another cup of Turkish coffee. 

"Illya." 

"Is S.H.I.E.L.D. treating you well?" he asks instead of exchanging pleasantries. He notes a new scar on her hairline but doesn't comment on it. She winks, telling him she's noticed the recent stitching along his shoulder and under his collarbone. 

"As well as can be expected," Natasha chuckles. "I have a new partner. I think you might like this one." 

"Mmm." 

"Hawkeye." 

"We'll have to meet at the dai pai dong on 4th." Illya murmurs wryly as she slips away. "I'll order your favorite." 

"Who was that?" Cowboy demands after she leaves. 

"An old friend." Illya says honestly. 

"You've never...?" Gaby pauses after the first two words. 

"No." 

"Can I—?" 

"She'll snap your neck between her thighs if you get too close, cowboy." he snorts with a serious expression. 

"Are you joking? Please tell me you're joking." Solo questions as Illya gets up to order more coffee. "Peril, seriously! I need an _answer_..." 

He laughs at his partner, only laughing harder when Solo insists that she's the best thing to come from associating with Illya. 

Illya agrees that it's nice to be visited by a star every once in a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, complain, ect. 
> 
> If you get the reference I made here, you get a mini fic. *grins*


End file.
